


go all the way, have your fun, have it all (this'll take you down)

by jokeperalta



Category: Me & Mrs Jones (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Finale, Scotch Eggs, me: writes for an one series show that aired four years ago, they are p. important after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7211216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jokeperalta/pseuds/jokeperalta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three wrong turns on to corridors and an unexpectedly stiff door later, Gemma practically explodes onto the roof. She's breathless from the run up the stairs (a lot of stairs) and half talking herself out of this whole unreal misadventure.</p>
<p>(What would she tell the girls? How can she possibly tell Alfie without him hating her forever? Can she do that to him? Is there any chance of him coming around to the idea of his mum and his best friend dating? How do you even date a younger man anyway? Dinner dates? Video games and takeaway pizza? Clubbing? Strip clubs? God, Billy probably knows sexual positions that weren't even invented the last time she had sex. And what if it ends? And almost more terrifyingly....what if it doesn't? What if-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	go all the way, have your fun, have it all (this'll take you down)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure there would have been much of an audience for this even while the show aired so it'll be interesting to see what reaction, if any, this gets four years later. This was the result of a rewatch a few days ago so I hope you enjoy :)

 

Three wrong turns on to corridors and an unexpectedly stiff door later, Gemma practically explodes onto the roof. She's breathless from the run up the stairs (a _lot_ of stairs) and half talking herself out of this whole unreal misadventure.

(What would she tell the girls? How can she possibly tell Alfie without him hating her forever? Can she do that to him? Is there any chance of him coming around to the idea of his mum and his best friend dating? How do you even date a younger man anyway? Dinner dates? Video games and takeaway pizza? Clubbing? Strip clubs? God, Billy probably knows sexual positions that weren't even invented the last time she had sex. And what if it ends? And almost more terrifyingly....what if it doesn't? What if-)

Billy is staring into the distance but the crashing noise of the door makes him whip his head round. He stands up and takes her in, slightly sweaty and chest heaving and feeling deeply unattractive, and when he smiles all her panicked thoughts just... stop. Three seconds of utter inner tranquility like she never has time to feel while she looks at him-- his hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it waiting for her, bottom lip red from where his teeth have worried it. Three seconds of knowing absolutely that she made the right choice, whatever happens with Alfie and the rest of her cluttered life.

She smiles back without even thinking about it.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," he admits.

_For a second, so was I_ , she thinks. "Yeah, well. Someone just has to say the words 'scotch egg' to me and I'm there," she says.

"Not so with the word 'yurt' then?" he asks. It's a innocent question on the face of it, but she can tell he wants her to be sure, wants her to tell him she's sure.

Gemma looks him in the eye. "No."

Billy's sharp eyes examine her, like he's looking for any doubt or indecision on her part. She doesn't blame him, what with her wretched hand wringing and wavering over everything, especially since he burst into her life. Gemma's breathing speeds up with the weight of his gaze but she forces herself to hold certain. He needs this from her.

Then he nods, smiling. "Good."

Ever the gentleman, Billy gestures for her to take the only chair while he has the bean bag square opposite. Gemma sits there gingerly, attempting to cool off and subtly let some air under her armpits where she can feel the beginning of unsightly damp patches (she is so smooth, honestly, who could fail to be attracted to her?)

Billy pours her some Cava in a Tweetie Pie novelty coffee mug. He explains with an apologetic wince that he hadn't had a chance to buy proper glasses yet and it's 'absolutely definitely on his list' along with another chair. Gemma just rolls her eyes and chinks it with his kids green plastic cup and drinks. It's actually refreshingly familiar--it's the kind of thing she'd do because her life's a mess. Better than feeling as though she's walking on egg shells among sterilised surfaces and butlers in the Lake District.

Gemma leans back in the chair, reaching for the now infamous scotch eggs.

"Hey!" Billy scolds, lightly slapping her hand away.

"I was promised scotch eggs?" Gemma says, confused. Also privately indignant, because those things look damn good and the aborted barbecue had left her ravenous and she likes her food damn it.

"And scotch eggs you shall have, milady-" he bows his head in deference "-just as soon as your chef has plated them up to haute cuisine standards."

Billy puts a single egg in the exact centre of a plate, breaking off a tiny sprig of rocket lettuce from the salad bowl and oh-so-carefully placing atop the egg, tongue sticking out in concentration. He presents the plate to her with a flourish and a smirk.

(He's such an idiot. She loves that about him.)

(And the scotch eggs are practically orgasmic as it turns out, so there's that.)

 

/

 

They stay outside till well after the sun goes down. Gemma barely even notices the time and it feels good. Not to have her immediate future broken up into Current Task and Next Task like it usually has to be just to make her life function in its dysfunctional way: feed kids, wrangle kids into homework, wrangle Alfie into doing laundry, put kids to bed, tidy house etc. ad infinitum.

It feels good to be free of that.

More than that, it feels good to be free of that _with him._ No interruptions, nowhere she has to be or rush off to. It's good. She likes it. A lot.

And without her messy life dominating everything as it always does, she actually gets to know Billy better. About growing up in Ireland, his lapsed Catholicism and ambivalence towards it now ("Ex-altar boy, you know," he tells her.) About why he decided to go travelling when he left school-- how his gap year became a gap half-decade. Why he became a chef. Everything about him is interesting. Everything about him makes her want to know more; to poke around around the edges of the view he gives her of himself and see what's just out of the frame.

He's in the middle of a story about finding himself learning to cook street food in Mexico City with a guy he met there when he notices she's shivering.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

"No, I'm fine," she says, crossing her arms. Her body betrays her with a full body shiver a second later.

"Are you lying?" he asks.

"... Maybe."

Billy smiles and shakes his head. He stands up, offering his hand to pull her up too. "Come on. Let's go inside."

Gemma collects up the bean bag and the blankets while Billy gathers the plates and glasses. His flat is on the top floor of the building, the smell of paint is still fresh and everything looks new and pristine. It's on the small side but Gemma can already see it being homely and cosy when Billy's finished with it. Boxes line the floor and take up much of the space of the counter top, waiting to be unpacked. Gemma puts down the blankets and bean bag in a neat pile on the side of the living room and sets to work, lifting pots and pans out of the boxes on the counter and finding suitable cupboards for them while he talks about Mexico.

It takes her a while to realise Billy's voice has trailed off. He's leaning his hip against the counter, looking bemused at her. Gemma ignores him, filling the silence with mindless babble about her experiences with street food on their last family holiday to Majorca and spending the majority of the holiday in the hotel room with food poisoning while she continues tidying his kitchenware away.

It's only when Billy steps forward and takes the wok she's holding out of her hand that she thinks anything of it.

"Sorry, I was- I was just putting things away," she explains.

"I can see that." He's giving her an odd half fond, half searching look. Gemma can feel attraction for him crackling under her skin, filling every pore, now that he's standing so close and she doesn't even try to fight it. She doesn't have to anymore and it's more of a relief than she ever thought possible. Gemma hadn't even realised how much concerted effort it took to deny she wanted him, even to herself. Now she feels loose, happy, unrestrained and it's wonderful.

He takes her uselessly fluttering hands, looking for something to do, in his.

"Just can't help yourself, can you?" he observes lightly, head cocked at her.

Confusion. She's confused. "What?"

"Always trying to bring order everyone else's lives for them," Billy tells her.

Gemma squirms only slightly under his gaze, looking away. There's something about the way he exposes parts of her personality that she hadn't even thought about. It's addictive that he can see her (the real her) so clearly when everyone else sees what they want to see or looks right past her. It's also moderately terrifying.

Gemma shrugs, tightening her grip on his hands slightly. "Well you know, that's what happens when you have three kids and a ex husband who's more child than all the kids put together. It's just what anyone would do."

"Nah, I think what you try to do for everyone all the time is pretty unique to you, actually," Billy says. He isn't mocking her. His eyes are soft, admiring. "I just think you should think about you every once in a while, Gemma."

"I do," Gemma protests. She looks up at him, gathers her courage and unhooked her hands from his and smooths them over his chest. She gravitates closer to him. "I am. Right now. _I_ want this. You."

Billy responds instantly, interlacing his fingers over the small of her back and holding her against him. "Good to know," he murmurs, warm breath billowing over her face. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you can help me unpack any time you like but..." his face gets serious "... I don't want you to think of this, of me, as just something else you have to deal with. I don't want to ever burden you."

Gemma stares at him. Well. That easily ranks in the sweetest and most sincere things anyone has ever said to her. She doesn't know how to respond so she doesn't, letting her forehead rest against his.

Later, Gemma won't even remember who kissed who first - only that the next thing she knows, Billy is lifting her up to sit on the kitchen counter to eke out their height difference and standing between her legs.

Also, he's kissing the shit out of her. Yep, that too.

Whatever it is about her that he can't get enough of (and honestly she's still trying to work it out herself) he certainly can't get enough of it now: his lips on hers till they're both breathless then finding every inch of skin he can while she attempts to regulate her racing heart even a little bit because this can't be healthy, right? But it's a fruitless task with Billy's kisses on her jaw, the soft spot under her ear that makes her sigh, his hands angling her chin to find the column of her throat.

Eventually there's no other choice but to give in entirely (which is... actually how it's always been with him.) Her hands push his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, grabbing at the bottom of his t-shirt to pull it over his head. She barely even thinks about the fact that he'll be the first man to see her naked in years while she divests herself of her own shirt. Gemma just wants him closer, skin to skin, all the desire she's felt for him finally finding expression and release.

Billy only stills her hands when she reaches for the button on his jeans. The disapproving noise she makes in her throat when he pulls away is actually embarrassing.

He shakes his head and his nose skims hers. "Not here. The first time I make love to you isn't going to be on my kitchen counter," he says, punctuating it with a kiss on the corner of her mouth. "But second or third time is a different story, of course..."

He's joking but the words 'make love' and all their implications are swirling around her head in his lilting accent too insistently for her to react. Billy takes her hand and she slips down from the counter, letting him lead her to his bedroom.

The problem is, now she has a minute to think suddenly all those concerns she could push to the back of her mind earlier with the feeling of his hands and lips on her skin reignite in her head with a vengeance.

(Including but not limited to: the shocking number of years it's been since she's been remotely close to having sex with a guy; how that guy was wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am-and-roll-off-to-sleep Jason; how she's sure Billy must have had sexual partners a thousand times better and more experienced than her in the past and how she's definitely not going to match up no matter how much he likes her.)

A fake it till you make it approach is what Gemma plumps for in response. Act like a confident, sexually confident and attractive woman and eventually she'll actually feel it, right? She kicks off her shoes and liners and goes to quickly strip her undershirt off, in as confident a manner as she can manage.

"Hey," Billy says. She looks up at the edge of indignation in his tone but he's got humour in his eyes. He steps closer, his bare chest touching her still clothed stomach. Her hands are still on the hem of her undershirt but he pulls them away. "I want to do that."

His eyes fixed her on hers, Billy pulls off her undershirt achingly slowly, undoes the button on her pants in the same way and pushes them down for her to step out of them. She's left in her bra and knickers and wishing she'd thought to wear some sexier lingerie than the pink and grey striped cotton M&S set she has on. At least they match, she supposes.

(Billy still looks at her like she's something extraordinary and it sends a blush up her cheeks, like she's a teenager again. Except less acne-prone.)

He leans in, pulling her close and pressing his lips to the skin between her shoulder and neck. Gemma undoes his jeans and lets herself be walked backwards to the double bed that she's moderately impressed he has given the general haphazardness of his new apartment.

"Billy," she half sighs while she's lying under him, letting him make love to her neck. "I- er... you should know, um, I haven't..."

Billy stops, leaving his elbows on each side of her face and lightly stoking her hair back. "What?"

"This-" she says. She gestures vaguely at them and their intertwined bodies. Billy arches an eyebrow. "I haven't done this, in a while. I mean, you know, after Jason and I finally gave up on the rust bucket that was our relationship, I just never really had the time -between taking care of the girls and Alfie and the business and everything else- I didn't really get out much. Well, I did, with Fran sometimes when she'd drag me to clubs I'm too old to be in and I went on dates but they never... got to this. You know? I mean, I'm not a prude or anything, but I'm not...practiced? I don't know what to do--well of course I know what to do, I have three kids for Christ's sake! I know the logistics and everything, but probably not what your other partners might have done or were into--not saying you've had lots of sexual partners or that you're into kinky sex necessarily I just--- God, I'm talking you out of this, aren't I?"

Billy is grinning down at her. "Weirdly, no," he tells her, his barely contained laughter rumbling pleasantly against her own stomach. "I like watching you start sentences that even you have no idea where they're going to end up."

Gemma flicks the back of her hand against his bare shoulder and tries her hardest not to smile. "What I'm saying is-" she starts again. She looks up at him seriously, feeling exposed. "Is that it's been- years. For me."

Billy considers her carefully in that intense way of his.

"I mean, there probably aren't actual cobwebs down there but..." Gemma jokes weakly.

To his credit, he doesn't look at her like she's some sex-depraved freak or react with disbelief and question her further. He just combs his fingers through her hair, digesting.

"Well," he finally says in a mock serious voice. He starts kissing his way down her body in between words, making her sigh and smile all at once. "I think that's something I'm going to have to check for myself, I'm afraid."

(And boy, does he check. Kneeling between his thighs, with his fingers and his tongue. _Multiple_ times. Gemma's legs feel more gelatinous than solid when she finally drags him back up her body to kiss him.)

 

/

 

(Later: their naked and exhausted bodies tangled together in his still slightly stiff new bedsheets. Gemma's still in a blissful floaty realm somewhere above her actual life, all her concerns drifting somewhere in the back of her mind without actually troubling her in any meaningful way. Billy's fingers make lazy patterns up and down her bare back while she's curled into him.)

"We'll be okay, won't we." Gemma says in the quiet of the early morning. She doesn't know if she'll believe that at all in the cold light of day, when she's faced with trying to explain this to Tom and the girls and Jason and _Alfie_.

"'Course we will," Billy tells her sleepily, all confidence and certainty. She believes him more than she believes herself.

"'Course we will," she repeats under her breath, against his skin, and lets herself fall asleep believing it.


End file.
